


Tales From Coradell Cove

by bluerainlily



Category: Coradell Cove, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, enjoy whatever's here i guess, i was gonna write more but i got tired so uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25727920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerainlily/pseuds/bluerainlily
Summary: what our beloved NPCs are doing while the party tries to fight not one, but two gods.
Kudos: 3





	1. OPHELIA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia, age five, has a stuffed unicorn and two living parents.

The lady in white first came to Ophelia in a dream. Ophelia almost didn’t recognize her for what she is, didn’t recognize her divine aura. She was too young and stupid to bow to authority, even the authority of a god.

The lady in white offered her what others would kill for — magic, power, divine guidance — but that first time, Ophelia said no.

“I see,” said the lady. She looked around, looked at Ophelia’s splendid dresses and her hand crafted lyre and her big canopy bed. “I cannot offer you more than you already have, for you already live in a dream.”

A shadow crosses her elegant face, the first flicker of imperfection Ophelia ever saw in her.

“Rest assured, my child,” she continued. “You will wake up one day. When you do, you will beg for the chance to return to me.”


	2. MARCY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcy, a year before a certain ship arrives in Coradell Cove, makes a bold cosmetic choice.

Her father sighs, and she knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “A nose ring, Marcella? Are you truly mad?”

“Dalan likes it,” says Marcy defensively. She thinks about the pair of velvet ring boxes in her room. If her father doesn’t like the piercing, she can only imagine how he’ll react when she walks down the boardwalk with her boyfriend, wearing matching rings. He’ll probably explode. The thought brings a smile to her face. “Posie says I look like a rockstar, and Augustus likes it too. Don’t you, Auggie.” She tickles the owl beneath his chin. “Face it, dad. You’ve been outvoted.”

“This isn’t — I’m not — ” He stutters, sighs. Father Frankford straightens his robes, then his posture. “This is a family, not a democracy. I’m just saying, you can stand to think things through a bit more, take a little extra responsibility around here.”

“I’m  _ plenty  _ responsible.”

He walks across the kitchen to the cupboard, pulls out a box of pellets, and pours a generous pile into the feeder. “You can’t even remember to feed Augustus.” 

Frankford doesn’t do rainbows and sunshines, but when he turns to her, his face is more serious than Marcy has seen it in a long time.

The last time he frowned like that, Marcy still hoped her mom would come down that mountain. These days, only Posie still harbours that delusion. Posie, and maybe Augustus, if only Marcy can ask him.

“Don’t start,” she tells him. “I get it. Mom’s not here. You won’t be around forever. Blah, blah, blah. I’ll pick up the slack around here, I promise. I’ll kill to protect Posie. I’ll die before I let anything happen to Augustus. I’ll — ”

Frankford holds up a hand. “I was just going to say, you can start by doing your chores on time.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, as long as the piercing stays.”

“Marcella.”

“Father.”

Frankford sighs. There’s no way he can win this fight tonight. He’ll have to try again tomorrow. “The piercing can stay, for now. Go wash up. The festival’s going to start any moment.”


	3. FLINT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody cares about the golden apple scavenger hunt.

Flint should’ve asked for a higher commission, for hourly rates instead of a flat fee. Hell, they should’ve asked for all the treasures in Lady Ophelia’s manor. Ophelia’s letter to Captain Sharpclaw, begging for the service of a thief, was so desperate, Flint doesn’t doubt she would give up all her gold, and then some, for this mission.

Flint could’ve been paid in stars and moons and magics, but it still wouldn’t be enough for them to willingly step into the same town as James.

(They wonder if Sharpclaw knew Jimmy was going to be here, or if Ophelia knew their history. Knowing Flint’s luck, however, this is probably just a cosmic prank. Even their shadow is laughing at them.)

But alas, they’re deep in it now. They can mess around on the side — steal a golden apple, mess with the guards, fuck around the office of that stuffy Father Frankford — but they’re bound to the contract until that lyre is in Lady Ophelia’s hands. 

Judging by the amount of magical wards and stuffy guards Frankford put up around this place, Flint’s stuck here for the long haul.

How did Ophelia think they can do this all by themselves? It’s a classic contractor problem, assuming Flint can solve all her problems just because she showered them in money. For this heist to go off without a hitch, they’ll need a whole team to cover their blind spots. An artificer might be nice. A distraction, of course. An acrobat, most — 

_ Crash. _

Flint’s thankful they’re invisible, so no one can see them jump like a cat.

(Speaking of cats…)

Most of the worshippers and tourists are still inside the temple, flipping over cushions and emptying bookshelves in search of the golden apple in Flint’s pocket, but not her. Not the tabaxi cat that just leapt up a thirty foot tall wall, landed gingerly on the roof, and smashed through the second floor window.

Flint blinks.

Two halflings, and that clumsy warforged, clamber up after, but none with the grace of the tabaxi. Flint’s mind turns. Gears shift. Plans form. Despite Jimmy, despite Lady Ophelia’s too perky voice ringing in his ears, despite the impossibility of the mission ahead of them, Flint can’t help but smile.

_ Her _ , they think. _ To pull this heist off, I’ll need her. _


	4. POSIE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before the rat talent show and the worst heist ever, Posie takes a minute alone.

Ten minutes until the bonfire, Posie kneels down in front of the shrine. It’s a practiced prayer, one that she’s whispered again and again and again, until her lips cracked and her mouth bled.

“Blessed is the Might of the Mountain.”

There’s a crackle of fire in her ear, but Posie knows that’s just the bonfire they’re lighting outside. The sun’s barely set, and the line has already formed all the way around the courtyard. Nobody’s willing to say it, but everybody’s here because of the same thing: for the first time in centuries, smoke is spewing off of the top of Mount Emberly.

“Blessed is the Saint of Fire and Light.”

She focused on her words. She tries to drown out the low murmurs of the anxious crowd outside. She clenches the paper — the drawing of her and Marcy, her meagre sacrifice — tight in her fist. This is all she can focus on. This is all she allows herself to focus on.

“Blessed is the Protector of the Weak. Blessed is the Punisher of the Wicked.”

She’s been repeating this mantra since she’s old enough to speak, before she’s old enough to know what it really means, but she’s never heard a reply.

“Blessed is Ember, Our Holy Light.”

It doesn’t hurt to try, she tells herself. Just try one more time.


End file.
